


Forged

by Rhysanoodle



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 01:11:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18928279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhysanoodle/pseuds/Rhysanoodle
Summary: A story about Mort's creationRequested on Tumblr





	Forged

Brannon had been laboring in his molten forge for weeks now. After Elena had stolen his amulet and mistakenly locked Erawan away in a cage, he’d been unable to do anything other than work with his hands and pick up the pieces of Terrasen for the resulting decades.

It was supposed to be him. It was always intended to be him, along with Mala who had given up her mortality for the task. They were to go out together. 

His mate had already forgotten him, and he yearned to be a wisp of memory in the mind of others as he faded out, forsaking an afterlife entirely.

But now, here he was, truly alone and desperate for it to be over. Elena, his last living child and heir, had given up her immortality for the Havilliard king, and now his daughter had finally been taken from him as well. Much too soon.

This was a life that Brannon was unable to cope with anymore, so he planned on ending it. On fading away and leaving the kingdom in the hands of one of his grandchildren as he pondered on his millenium of existence.

But first he needed to make some preparations. He had spirited the Wyrdkeys away from the demons and the Fae queen, yet he could not leave this legacy to just anyone. He knew Erawan would not be contained in that flimsy prison for the rest of existence, but it was a burden he was unable to shoulder on a young ruler.

Brannon had been seasoned when he learned of their power and ultimately went on the hunt to find them. He was aware of their cost and the destruction they could wrought on a land if used improperly because he’d had the guidance of a god.

One he carried with him at all times in the Amulet of Orynth. He had forged it before the war, and it was little work on his part to slip the stone inside and seal it. He appreciated the aura of power it gave him, aiding in his negotiations and the protection of his country, but he never let himself get swept away in the current of its power.

Another he planned to leave in Mala’s temple, as a tribute to the love of his life. She may have forgotten him, but he would give his forlorn mate a tribute before passing into the afterlife.

The final one, he had stored beneath a loose floorboard deep within his closet. This was the final one he needed to figure out how to hide. In recent years, as Elena began to wither, a somber plan had begun to form. His daughter would need a final resting place—a tomb worthy of the ruler she had been in life—and the final stone would come to rest with her.

As he placed the finishing touches on her crown, sealing the stone behind the gem seamlessly, he turned to his major project. A guardian for the treasure others would kill for. A guide for anyone so inclined to use the stones for the same purpose he was. Who had Mala’s blood and would able to gift it just as his mate had.

It was almost complete, and tomorrow he would ride back to Adarlan. To the castle. To the Cambrian mountains to be with his mate. Tomorrow, he would finish all he owed to the mortal realm and fade from it forever. Tomorrow.

* * *

“Can you hear me?”

The voice awoke it. From … what? It couldn’t remember anything beyond this moment. This flash of awareness it had been given.

Yet this mournful voice, it understood.

“Can you open your eyes?” The voice was strained, hesitant, as if unsure what the answer would be.

Eyes, yes. It had those, and instinctually, they popped open, revealing a dimly lit corridor. And in front of it stood a man—male, he knew through some innate knowledge. For this being was Fae, his eyes red-rimmed as if he had barely finished crying.

“What am I?” It’s voice was raspy, deep, metallic.

“You are my guardian.”

“Who am I?”

“Whoever you want to be.”

“Where am I?”

“Hanging on the door of my daughter’s tomb.”

“What is my purpose?”

“To guard what is hidden here. To guide my heirs if they are ever sent on this fool’s errand.”

At this the male launched into a long tale of wars and gods and demons from another realm. Of how his reign was over, and he was going to the afterlife to rejoin his beloved. Of how one of his unlucky descendants might come searching for something in the distant future.

It was to be the judge of character. To decide if it should help or hinder. To cooperate or confuse. To determine if worthy or wretched.

What exactly it was overseeing, it never learned. Just that there was a treasure more priceless than any other and a clue about how to uncover it.

“What should I call myself?”

“It is of no consequence to me. You are my legacy left to the mortal realm. With you, I will live on as my body comes to rest. Name yourself whatever you wish. Or don’t name yourself at all. The choice is yours.”

But it’s thoughts had caught on one phrase— _left to the mortal realm_.

“I am their guardian?”

“Of sorts.”

“Then they may call me that. Guardian of the Mortal Realm.”

“A bit of a mouthful, if you ask me.” The male’s—Brannon’s—brow furrowed before he spoke once more. “How about Mort for short? It will … humanize you to others who may come across your path.”

“And must I speak to them all?”

“Only those who garner your interest. I imagine many will visit in the upcoming years, but eventually the humans will forget about this tomb. They always do. Things have a strange way of getting lost in their histories.”

“As you wish.”

Seeming contented with how things had gone, Brannon began gathering his tools, preparing to leave.

“I’d give you the usual formalities, but I fear we will not have cause to meet again,” he mused.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Mort replied in farewell as this male—his creator—took his torch and ambled down the hallway.

The last thing Mort saw was the fading of the torch into the brimming darkness. And so his watch began. 


End file.
